The Mermaid's Sister(30)

Job takes a carrot from my hand and whinnies his thanks. I face O’Neill and say with conviction, “We will make it.”

“So now you believe in me?” A pitiful half smile accompanies his question.

“I have always believed in you, O’Neill. I have known you were the heroic type since you rescued me from the top of Auntie’s tallest oak tree, when we were both five years old.”

“Ah, yes. Maren dared you to climb higher than the barn roof, and you scrambled up the tree like a squirrel.”

“I wanted to prove that I was as brave as both of you were. I didn’t let myself think before I climbed up—and then I looked down,” I say.

“You froze. Even from the ground, I could see that you’d gone as pale as a ghost. I scampered up after you and spent the next two hours talking you down, branch by branch.”

“I was not brave at all. I am still not brave. Thank goodness you are here to help us, now that we are two damsels in distress.”

He reaches out and runs his fingers lightly across my cheek. “You are no damsel in distress, Clara. You are far braver than you think. You left your comfortable home behind to venture through thick forests and over terrible roads so that your sister might have a chance to live. And Maren and I could not have made this journey without you. I would not have taken care of her half as well as you have. I would have oversalted her water and never remembered to wash her face at night. I would have overslept every day, forgotten to eat, and made a hundred more wrong turns. So you see? You are utterly indispensable.”

I step backward, my face aflame. “Yes. Well. We ought to resume the journey before night falls.” I refuse to meet his gaze. Must he touch me? My chest aches inside with confusion and longing and hopelessness.

“There—I even need you to remind me to focus on the task at hand,” he says. “I’d be hopeless without you.”

“I will check on Maren while you ready the horses.” I rush into the caravan, heart pounding rebelliously. I am not so brave, I think. And I am far from indispensable. Foolish, yes. A traitor to my beloved sister and her true love, yes. But not brave.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN





I hear a mighty crack—the sound of a cut tree splintering just before it falls—and the wagon lurches and leans. “Whoa,” O’Neill shouts, “whoa, there!”

Trinkets and boxed goods tumble from the shelves as the caravan comes to a quick stop. Water splashes out of Maren’s washtub and drenches Osbert. The mermaid’s eyes widen with fear and she desperately grips the tub’s sides. “Are you hurt?” I ask.

She shakes her head. Her coral-pink lips form the question, “What happened?”

“I will find out,” I say. I hurry to put on my shoes and meet O’Neill outside.

“A broken wheel,” he grumbles. He stares at the fractured yellow spokes and torn metal. He utters a few words I do not recognize. From his mood and tone, I guess that they are the expletives of a foreign tongue. “I have never seen one quite so destroyed. We are miles from the next town, and from the look of those clouds, I’d say we are in for quite a storm within the hour.”

“We will camp here for the night, then,” I say, attempting to sound cheerful. “I will lay out a picnic in the caravan. Like when we were younger and pretending to travel to forbidden kingdoms.”

“For all your talk of playing, Clara, I see the worry in your eyes.” He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “But you are right. Nothing can be done tonight. I will unhitch Job and January and find them a place to graze, and then I will join you.”

Of all the traditions of our shared childhood, the caravan picnic has always been a favorite. So, despite the bothersome delay the wheel causes, I prepare our meal with gratitude. I will take joy in keeping this custom with my sister—one last time before she leaves the land.

From Scarff and O’Neill’s many trunks and drawers, I choose a pink damask tablecloth and richly painted Turkish dishes, a wooden cutting board in the shape of an elephant, goblets of ruby glass, and a knife with the bust of a Roman god for a handle. I set three places, just like always. I arrange pillows and cushions for O’Neill and me to sit upon and clear a place for Maren’s tub.

It is not a royal banquet by any measure: hard cheese, two-day-old bread, lukewarm cider, and pickles. Lighting the caravan stove to cook bacon or boil water for tea would only raise the temperature inside from sultry to oppressive. We have none of Auntie’s jams or cakes, no sliced cold chicken or clove-scented ham. But in the golden lamplight, with the low rumble of thunder in the distance, it seems a fine feast.

All is ready. I wait for O’Neill, feeling the flutter of butterflies in my stomach, as if he has been gone all winter and is about to come home again—to me. I wish I had changed my dress and tidied my hair, but I hear his boots on the steps and it is too late for fussing.

Little raindrops glisten in his golden hair. His somber expression melts away as he beholds the arrangement of plain food and exotic tableware. “You are an artist,” he says. “I should paint it rather than eating it.”

“Nonsense,” I say. “Will you bring Maren’s tub to her place? Even though she cannot eat, she would hate to miss a caravan picnic.”

“Of course,” he says.